


Reclamation

by ChocoChipBiscuit



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/F, Nipple Piercings, Oral Sex, Piercings, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-21 19:38:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9563453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/pseuds/ChocoChipBiscuit
Summary: Cait and Glory decide to pierce their nips.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redhandsredribbons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redhandsredribbons/gifts).



> Prompt: Glory/Cait, maybe some kind of body modification for either or both of them, to reclaim/reconnect to body after trauma.
> 
> I've never written anything with piercings (and am a perfect baby about needles) and take full responsibility for any inaccuracies in this. :) (But I do headcanon that Daisy runs the best piercing parlor anywhere in the Commonwealth!)
> 
> As always, many thanks to placentalmammal for reading through and yelling at me. <3

Skin on skin, her tongue meets flesh. Lips drawn back, teeth firm on the nipple, tugging, pulling. Glory curls two fingers inside Cait as the other woman bucks, moans—

“Oh fuck. Oh _fuck_. Don’t fucking _stop_ ,” Cait groans, hair mussed against the dingy pillow in a jagged red halo. As much a prayer as a curse, clenching the headboard as she comes under Glory’s mouth, Glory’s hands. Coming apart, all broken breath and shatter-glass eyes, thighs still quaking.

They come together with a kiss, Cait’s mouth rough and chapped. She tastes like smoke and whiskey, nicotine-rush and stolen freedom.

“Fuck that was good,” Cait mumbles. Her hand rests against Glory’s bicep, fingers curled. Still afraid to grasp for what’s freely given, even with their limbs tangled in sweat-soaked sheets.

Glory has no more fears— not on that front, at least. Fear is the spur that drives you to action, and she knows what to do: grab what you can before it’s taken away, gorge yourself on all that’s good and forbidden. So she buries her nose in Cait’s hair and breathes deep. “More like a good fuck.”

“Oh fuck you,” Cait says, lazy and content. Vulgarity rolls off her lips like rubies. “I’m gonna mark you for that.”

Glory doesn’t give love-bites often, not unless she thinks about it. Not unless she asks. But she loves receiving them; the Institute valued its property too much to wilfully damage them, even the sort of fleeting cosmetic damage that couldn’t be explained as ‘science.’ So she treasures her bruises, counts them like pulled petals against her skin. Every one a gift, a token.

(She is a _person_ , not a product.)

“What kind of marks do you like?” Glory asks, before the silence can stretch too long. Before it can fracture this careful illusion. They both spend too much time on the roads and apart for this to be anything but a temporary peace, some stolen luxury of time. Even now, even in the Rexford, there’s the faint whirr of the distant fans, the muffled footsteps on threadbare carpet, the glimmer of light around the cracks in the door. A thousand and one things pressing them in.

Cait scrunches her nose, brow knit. Tongue bit and poking past her lips.

Glory knows Cait, inside and out. Knows the wet pulse of Cait’s cunt and the musk-sour taste of her morning breath, the stippled scars of old track-marks along her arm and the red circles of old cigarette burns. Knows that even now, Cait never sleeps with her back to the door, even now watches people’s hands rather than their eyes, checks for exits before she enters a room.

(Glory does the same— quick learner, she. Wouldn’t have survived otherwise.)

Cait releases her tongue, smiling. “Bites and bruises, yeah.” Chuckles, low and dirty. A slant-wise cast to her eyes as she edges the conversation about. “Do piercings count as marks? I think you’d look hot with pierced tits.”

“You are _not_ piercing my tits,” Glory snorts, swatting Cait’s shoulder.

Cait rocks back, then forward again. She hooks her leg over Glory’s, snickering. “Nah. Would pay a pro to do it.” Almost as an afterthought, she adds, “Daisy’s good.”

Glory rolls that thought around in her head. Rattles it. “Sounds like you thought about this.”

“Yeah, but— just never made sense, for me. Don’t want a fresh piercing if you know you’re just gonna go cage-fighting, right?” Cait winces, miming a smack into her breast. “Take a good whack across the chest and nasty shit happens.”

“You’re not cage-fighting anymore.”

A long silence, with Cait’s eyes closed. Glory starts thinking maybe she fell asleep, until:

“...yeah. I’m not.”

 

* * *

 

Next morning brings another lazy round of fucking, Cait’s face buried between Glory’s thighs and licking and sucking until Glory spills into wild moans, a roof-rattling scream as she clenches, comes, the world flashing shrapnel-bright and bursting behind her eyes.

Cait pops up, cheeks ruddied and slickness dripping down her chin. Croons, “ _Sing hallelujah!”_ with her breath on Glory’s belly.

They both break into snorting laughter.

Getting dressed is a playful thing, taking longer than it should as Cait bumps her hip into Glory’s, then Glory retaliates by stealing Cait’s left sock, but that only means Cait starts ‘searching’ Glory’s pockets, squeezing her ass and they almost break into another bout of sex except for Cait’s abrupt stomach growl, signalling that it’s time for breakfast.

They play-bicker as they stomp down the steps into the Third Rail. Cait orders the pan-fried molerat with potatoes and gravy, while Glory opts for hotcakes with tarberry syrup. She’s still not above taking a bite of Cait’s molerat though, swapping one of the syrup-soaked cakes for a slab of meat.

“So. Still thinking about those piercings?” Glory asks. Scrapes her fork across the plate, scooping up syrup.

Cait wipes grease from her mouth. “For you or for me?”

“Both.” Glory licks her fork, the syrup sticky on her lips.

“Yeah. We could do ‘em together.” Cait swallows, sets her fork down on the empty plate. “If you wanted. We could go talk with Daisy, learn more about it. Don’t have to get it _done_ right away.”

“That’s what I love about you. That balls to the wall spontaneity,” Glory says drily.

Cait snorts, kicking Glory’s stool. “Fuck off. It’s something that lasts a helluva lot longer than a bruise, right?”

“Yeah, just ‘I love you’ pushed under my skin,” Glory teases, making as if to shove Cait off the stool.

But Cait catches Glory’s wrists, Cait’s flesh pale under the scars and freckles. Pink against Glory’s warm brown skin. She kisses Glory’s knuckles, breathes soft air against them. “You’re my fucking treasure.”

 

* * *

 

They sit side-by-side in Daisy’s back office, Cait slouched into the wooden chair and Glory ramrod-straight as Daisy runs through her spiel.

“I want it clear, mind. If I do these piercings for you, you better take good care of them.” Daisy does not pace, but command crackles off her like sparks, kinetic energy barely suppressed. “I have a reputation to maintain, and I don’t want it ruined if you’re too lazy to clean your piercings or decide to start playing tug-of-war with your tits before they’re healed.”

“How long does it take to heal?” Glory asks.

Daisy clicks her tongue against her teeth. “Fully healed? A year. Mostly healed, barring infection risk and occasional bleeding? A couple months.” She allows that to sink in, smoothing the front of her surprisingly crisp prewar business suit. “But it’ll be the most swollen in the first couple days. Don’t remove the piercing for the first six weeks unless you want to lose the piercing. And no tugging, sucking, or smacking ‘em around for those six.”

Cait glances sidelong at Glory, raising an eyebrow.

Daisy’s voice softens. “I’m not here to try to sell you on them. Take your time and think about it. You can always come back, after all.”

 

* * *

 

Two weeks later, Cait and Glory scraped up the caps and blocked their schedules out, returning to Daisy’s shop. Daisy leads them to a small room with clean sheets and her tools neatly laid out on a surgical tray, wrapped in plastic.

“They’re not new, but I autoclave them between clients. Your fee includes both the piercing and aftercare products. And if you change your mind, we can stop. Before, during, or after.” Daisy cants a sparse brow, her suit jacket off to reveal suspenders and rolled-up sleeves. “Any questions?”

Glory shakes her head. Removes her shirt, her bra. Takes her seat, clenching Cait’s hand as she stares up at the ceiling. Rather than blank space, Daisy helpfully positioned one of the ubiquitous cat paintings above the chair. It helps, a little. Focusing on the wispy lines of the cat’s whiskers, on the warm pressure of Cait’s hand in hers. Distracts from the crinkle of Daisy unwrapping her tools, the anticipatory chill going down her neck. She bites prayer between clenched teeth.

As it turns out, anticipation is worse than reality.

(Glory’s flesh knows metal: scalpels, bullets, knives, nail-studded bats and lengths of bloody chain. She wears a catalogue of pain; why should she fear needles?)

But when it’s Cait’s turn in the chair, Glory holds her just as tight.

 

* * *

 

Railroad business keeps Glory up and going, though she still steals moments to wash and soak her new piercings in saline. She rarely gets the time to admire them— which makes Daisy’s stern commandment not to touch them easier, at least. She learns new ways to disrobe, to get dressed, to carefully stretch the fabric in front to avoid irritating the new barbells. She drafts letters in her head, thinks of all the ways to say hello, goodbye, ‘I love you,’ ‘I missed you,’ to Cait. Cait’s safe in County Crossing, building up the settlement’s defenses and training the militia. But their bodies share this mirror; the same piercings, the same reclamation.

It’s a secret under her clothes, against her skin. She carries secrets for a living, rattles out bright hope in a machine-gun fury of destruction. But they always belong to others— to the Railroad, to the mission, to the synths seeking safety. She keeps her silence because one careless word could mean someone else’s blood on the floor.

But this is for _herself_ , carried for the sheer pleasure of knowing it. No one will crack her skull to decipher it, no one will threaten her friends for it.

She did not wilfully damage Institute property.

She wilfully adorned herself.

 

* * *

 

They meet again, lips and teeth, hands tracing tattered map-edges of skin and cloth. A fine red grit sticks to Cait’s boots, and she has a fading yellow-green under her eye, but Glory finds the same contours, the same outlines of muscle and form. Cait shines through no matter what her colors.

“What happened?” Glory asks, thumb under the bruise.

Cait grins bright with pride. “Training.” She butts her head against Glory’s palm, still grinning. “Militia’s coming along.”

Glory chuckles, lowering her hand. “Do you wear all your lessons?”

“Nah. Only my triumphs.” Cait kisses Glory’s cheek before leading her through County Crossing. Everyone they see tips their head, waves, and Cait calls them by name. She’s built ‘community’ out of the skeleton of bare walls and empty space.

They enter the small house at the heart of it all, a simple wooden building coated in plain white paint. It’s attached to the clinic, and the woman inhabiting G5’s chassis smiles at them, looking up from her terminal and the rapid-fire click of the keyboard.

(Glory’s pulse jumps in her throat, bitter and electric. Guilt’s an old and copper taste, and anger stinks like iron. Glory wonders if the woman even knows that her computer usage would have been forbidden in the Institute.)

Cait and the other woman mouth their way through small talk, hellos, goodbyes, and Glory hangs silently back until they finish. The woman in G5’s chassis smiles— and Glory recognizes the shape of G5’s grief, a twist of shadow at the edge of her mouth— but does not push, allowing Glory to retreat in Cait’s footsteps.

Cait’s room is small, the bed barely big enough for two, and there’s an old Wakemaster alarm on the dresser, a few tattered comics half-hidden under the bed. Glory recognizes one from the cover; Mistress of Mystery special edition.

“Been six weeks,” Cait murmurs. She undoes Glory’s coat, callused fingers slipping up the bottom of Glory’s shirt to trace the edge of her hip.

Glory catches Cait’s hands, pressing them flat against her belly. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

Cait laughs, bullet-bright and rattling. “Deal.”

They unwrap each other like brown paper parcels, hands rustling on skin. Cait’s clothing land on the floor, undone by Glory’s haste, but Cait scoops them up to lay them on the dresser. She folds Glory’s coat over the back of a chair, sets their boots side by side as Glory watches from the bed.

Glory chuckles, sprawled back. Admiring the stainless steel twinkle of Cait’s barbells, the way they glitter in the scant light. The bed smells faintly green and dusty, like the blankets had been stored with a sachet of herbs. “My boots have gotten worse than getting tipped over.”

“Good boots are hard to find,” Cait snorts. Fully nude, she straddles Glory’s hips, sitting back to remove the rest of Glory’s clothes.

Glory cooperates as little as she can get away with, kissing Cait’s clustered freckles and squeezing Cait’s breasts from the underside, careful to avoid the piercings. She skims her hands over Cait’s thighs, fine hair tickling her palm, and twirls a thumb into Cait’s generous thatch of pubic hair, tugging. “And lo, I see before me a burning bush...”

“Oh _fuck_ you,” Cait laughs, rolling her shoulders back. The steel barbells twinkle at her nipples, knife-bright. “If you’re gonna recite religious jumbo, I’m gonna sit on your face.”

“But then I can’t see your pretty tits,” Glory says, raising her hands— prayer or supplication, either way, Cait takes them in hers and kisses the pulse of the wrist, blood humming beneath the skin. “Can I touch?” At Cait’s nod, she cups her hands over the swell of the breasts, thumbs against the metal. They’re skin-warm, hard against the soft flesh, Cait’s nipples stiffening with them. An exploration of textures, smooth and round against the puckered areola, like holy Braille on the text of the body. Cait’s like a fistful of poetry, sacred and profane. Worthy of worship.

Cait’s fingers stay loosely circled about Glory’s wrists, pressure without weight; a reassurance, reminder of presence as Glory explores these new additions to her lover’s body.

“How do they feel?” Glory asks, brushing her nail against the metal bar.

“Feels good. Sensitive. Don’t pull, but that feels— oh, yeah. That’s good,” Cait hisses, body arching as Glory rolls the nipple beneath her thumb.

“How good? Could I make you come?”

“Aw, fuck. Don’t want _party tricks_ ,” Cait groans, grinding into Glory’s belly.

Glory feels the heat at Cait’s core, like a burning coal amidst the crinkle of Cait’s hair and the slickness smeared between them. “Not trying for a party trick. Just wondering if I can.”

“Dunno. Maybe? Would need your mouth on me to find out…”

Glory wriggles and Cait slides back, letting Glory sit up. Her ass settles into the bed, the frame sighing as they shift. Glory dips her neck, flicks her tongue over the freckles dotting Cait’s skin, tracing constellations in the starry expanse as Cait scratches her nails against Glory’s scalp. Glory opens her mouth, tucks her lips around the nipples. Laps her tongue against the metal piercing, the soft give and tug of flesh. Tests her teeth against the metal, little more than a hint of pressure before Cait’s hands tighten in Glory’s hair, and Glory stops.

“Don’t like anything that jolts the piercing,” Cait says, somewhere between explanation and apology.

Glory kisses between Cait’s breasts, nose bumping her sternum. “I’m sorry.”

“Nah, no harm. Can I touch yours?”

Glory nods, and their bodies jostle as they adjust, arms bumping as Glory sets her hands over Cait’s hips and Cait brings her hands down to Glory’s breasts. The contrast of steel on flesh is even more dramatic with Glory’s dark brown skin, and Cait lets out a soft ‘oh’ of delight as she rubs her thumbs over Glory’s nipples. Strange to feel someone else touching these new piercings, even stranger to feel the rod inside her body shifting as Cait presses. Every sensation is heightened; the rough callus of Cait’s thumbs, the pull of skin, the soft heat of Cait’s mouth as she leans forward to flick her tongue against the nipple. Glory bumps her hips up, forward, winces as it means a harder pull on the piercing. “Enough foreplay. Want you on my clit.”

“I wanna wrap my arms around you,” Cait says.

So they roll, adjust. Cait spoons behind Glory, one arm under Glory’s ribs and circling to squeeze the breast, palm flat against the nipple and the other wrapped over Glory’s hips. Her strong fingers slide through Glory’s wet folds, gathering slick as she sets them around Glory’s clit, framing it. A maddening tease, Glory hissing and hooking her foot over Cait’s ankles in protest. Cait smothers her chuckle against Glory’s neck, adjusting her fingers to stroke. Up, down. Only the basics of motion, but Glory’s never needed anything fancy to get off, just needed this, this, this. Cait’s breath hot against her neck, her pulse throbbing in her mouth. Everything focused to body, to skin. To the way the sweat sticks them together, the way Cait’s palm chafes soft against Glory’s pubes, the way Glory’s breasts tingle and she tastes salt on the edge of her tongue as she _comes_ , then comes, and Cait rocks her through another, then another, until she’s wrung limp and exhausted, until she rolls her head back and bumps Cait’s skull. She turns to kiss Cait in apology.

Cait kisses her back, chuckling. “Feeling good?”

“Yeah.” Glory grins, slow and lazy. “I wanna eat you out. Come sit on my face.” She wiggles her tongue, eyebrows waggling.

“That’s _one_ way to shut you up…” Cait laughs, swinging her leg over Glory’s chest and sliding up. Her muscular thighs press around Glory’s face, weight shifted forward as she braces her hands against the wall.

Glory, mouth full of pussy, responds by going straight for the clit. No teasing flicks, no gentle laps, only her lips tamped about the small bud of flesh and sucking hard, humming with the force of it. She continues as Cait squirms, swearing, and only relents when Cait breaks into a soft yelp. Then she goes into Cait’s preferred rhythm, hard flicks of the tongue going up and down, then sideways, direct and consistent pressure until Cait hits climax with a hard grunt.

Cait rolls off to kiss Glory, lips and tongue pressed in open-mouthed secret before Cait pulls herself down. She kisses the line of Glory’s jaw, her neck, her collar. Sprawls an arm over Glory’s chest and lets out a contented sigh. “No regrets?”

Glory knows it’s not about the sex. “No, none.” She pinches her own nipple, rubbing the barbell beneath her thumb. “Actually, I was thinking… next time? Might pierce my tongue. Add a little extra oomph when I’m going down on you. Or maybe pierce the hood of my clit. That could be fun.”

Cait snorts, burying her face against Glory’s shoulder. “Holy shit. Don’t know if I’d do it with you, but… yeah. That could be hot.”

Glory chuckles, nuzzling against the soft bristles of Cait’s hair.

These are their bodies, chosen and reclaimed. Broken and repaired with shining metal, body-text and illuminated manuscript.


End file.
